A Tale of Two Toms
by Gwdihw
Summary: A fluffy, naughty romance between Tom Branson and Thomas Barrow...


**Anyone who's seen Rob James-Collier and Allen Leech together in interview will totally understand where this ship is coming from. They just have so much damned chemistry.**

A Tale of Two Toms

Thomas was having his ninth cigarette of the morning and wondering what on Earth was to become of him when Tom Branson pulled up the drive in the car. Thomas shot him a curious, quizzical look which the Irishman ignored, his hands gripping the steering wheel tensely as he manoeuvred the car towards the garage, wheels crunching up the gravel.

Tom got out of the car, sighed and jammed his hands into his pockets. He leant back onto the side of the car, trying to compose himself. He was to drive the Earl of Grantham into Ripley later, he remembered wryly, incredible as it seemed after he had very nearly eloped with the Earl's daughter the night before. He groaned involuntarily; he had been so close, the delicate texture of her skin so very near to his. Had they reached Gretna Green that morning and married, he would very soon have traced that skin in its entirety and pulled her soft hair loose to flow wildly about him. He had always fancied that left to its own device, Sybil's hair would be as rebellious as Sybil herself.

'Where have you been off so early, then?' Thomas drawled.

Tom jerked in surprise. He hadn't seen the former footman follow him into the garage.

For some reason, Tom had never been able to lie to Thomas – Thomas was such a good liar himself, such a talented manipulator, that he could sniff out a falsehood a mile away. Tom could never have convinced him.

'I was halfway to Scotland last night,' he admitted, taking a drag out of the cigarette that Thomas offered him. He rarely smoked, but needed it now. 'With Lady Sybil,' he added to clear up Thomas' confusion. 'We were to be married today,' he said, unable to stop sadness, almost nostalgia, from infecting his voice. Already last night seemed a chapter from somebody else's life.

'What happened?' Thomas asked. 'Did she change her mind?' There was something of a coolness in Thomas' voice which hadn't been there a minute before.

'Her sisters changed it for her,' Tom spat bitterly, crossing his arms. 'They turned up in the middle of the night and convinced her to go back with them. Sybil says she'll still marry me, but,' he shook his head hopelessly. 'I can't see how it would come off now.' He was very aware that while Sybil was fond of him, her feelings did not match his, didn't come close. As much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, it was a way of life that she was marrying, not him. Her words from yesterday rang bittersweet in his memory: 'you're my ticket out of here.' He might have been any affable servant.

Thomas broke the deep, thorny silence of the past few minutes in which they had both been contemplating and passing a cigarette back and forth.

'She may still be up for marrying you – you don't know, do you?' Thomas murmured quietly.

'I was so close,' Tom said quietly, more to himself than his companion. 'Five years I've loved her, and I thought I finally had her.'

Thomas nodded and stamped the last of the cigarette into the floor.

'His lordship would have throttled you. I'd give my good hand to have been in the room when he learnt his daughter was running off with the chauffer!'

'He'll be angry, I know,' Tom said. 'But I can make her happy, I know I can!' he hissed in frustration. 'I understand her and respect her, they don't!' he said, nodding his head contemptuously towards the grand house.

'Will she make you happy?' Thomas asked.

'Yes,' Tom said answered firmly, looking the other man straight in the eye and ignoring the jolt of electricity between them.

'Really, though? You've idolised her for five years. That can be a dangerous thing,' Thomas cautioned.

'What are you suggesting?' Tom countered coldly.

'Nothing,' Thomas lied with a falsely cheerful smile. Tom wondered whether he was getting better at spotting deception or whether Thomas was putting on a poor show deliberately.

Thomas stepped suddenly towards the Irishman, closing the space between them and snatching all the air from the room. Their faces hovered mere inches away from each other and Tom, pressed against the car, couldn't escape.

'Look,' Tom said, his voice ragged with anguish. 'It's her, it's always going to be her.'

'Oh, I know that,' Thomas answered softly, his hands falling on Tom's hips. Tom could feel his breath on his neck as he spoke. 'I'm not asking you to choose me instead, I'm too proud for that. This is just goodbye.'

'Goodbye,' Tom repeated uneasily. It seemed strange to end something which had never had a proper beginning, had simply fallen together at the time because… well, because it was something they both needed. Tom's love for Sybil had seemed utterly unrequited at that point, something which he had never said aloud because he hadn't needed to do so. Thomas, on the other hand, was less obvious about what had broken his heart, but he had made enough fragmented hints and stray comments over the past couple of years for Tom to piece together that he had been in love with someone from the army. Tom supposed that it was a fellow soldier in the trenches.

'What was this, anyway?' Tom breathed. He wasn't sure why it was so important for him to know all of a sudden.

Thomas didn't answer immediately, glided his hands along Tom's belt and leant forward so that their foreheads touched. 'Don't try and define it. Some of the best things don't have a name.'

Thomas was gently holding the chauffer's chin with one hand, caressing the side of his face with the other, his trademark manoeuvre. There was something wonderfully calming about it, Tom thought with a stab of sadness, realising it would be the last time. Tom always forced himself to be focussed, ambitious, his entire life on a mission. Only during moments like these could he switch off and relinquish control to Thomas temporarily in a way that he knew he never could with Sybil. He was asking her to give up her Universe, he could never be anything less that her hero, her shining knight.

'Stop it,' Thomas murmured into Tom's neck. 'Stop thinking.'

Naturally, Tom's stress fell away, dropping like clothes to the floor. He would have to pick both up later.

Thomas was such an intense kisser, Tom thought; he kissed like someone who had long thrown morality and social niceties to the wind, his wet lips needy and his tongue snaking forward. It ran along Tom's teeth before entering his mouth more deeply.

Tom groaned, yanking Thomas' shirt to bring him closer. Tom's shaking fingers reached for Thomas' buttons, fiddling them open and spreading his hands on the pale chest flecked with dark hair. Thomas smirked; if there was one thing he would never lack, it was vanity. They wouldn't have much time and Tom knew it probably would have been more prudent to make a beeline for the trousers. However, knowing that this was the last time, he wanted to see everything, to relish the body before him. He reached for Thomas' bad hand and went to pull off the glove.

Thomas snatched his hand away.

'Don't,' he warned.

Thomas has said before in passing that his hand wasn't a token of bravery, it was a token of fear. Tom understood what that comment meant and understood why he would want to keep the hand hidden away.

Tom reached back for the mutilated hand and took off the glove, kissing the ruined skin.

'I love your hand for keeping you alive,' Tom said simply.

Thomas smiled back at him. 'I suppose you would never be angry at someone who wouldn't fight for the British Empire! But thank you for that.'

Tom entwined the bad hand with his own hand and let his lips meet the Englishman's again.

'Get in the car with me,' Tom muttered. Thomas smirked wickedly.

'I thought you were never going to ask me that!'

Tom opened the door and gestured for Thomas to enter.

'Well, aren't you the perfect gentleman!' he teased. 'You know, I've never had a door held open for me before. I could get used to this,' he purred, sitting on the edge of the seat and pulling Tom between his knees. Tom's breath shuddered a little at the contact; he could feel the other man as hard as a rock through his trousers.

Thomas grinned, guessing Tom's thought and meeting his eyes. 'Yes, you too.' Thomas kissed him again, maddeningly softly this time, teasing the Irishman, who whimpered in frustration. Thomas' mouth curved into a self-satisfied smile.

'Please, kiss me properly,' Tom urged.

Not needing any more encouragement, Thomas slid backwards along the back seat, his hand clamped onto Tom's neck to drag him along, too. The kisses were fiery now, tearing at Tom's lips; he felt hands clamber up his shirt, one brushing roughly over his nipple, causing him to quiver. As Thomas was removing his shirt, Tom kissed along the Englishman's already bare chest, tongue dipping into his navel. Thomas giggled uncontrollably, his hands finding Tom's hair and clenching. He was so ticklish there; Tom would miss that.

With easy, almost feline grace, Thomas slid from underneath Tom and pinned him down beneath him. They stared at each other; Tom couldn't have dragged his eyes off the Englishman's if he'd wanted to – they were blazingly hungry, his mouth slightly open and his pale skin flushed.

'You've finished teasing me now, haven't you?' Tom grinned, heady with the thrill of being completely and utterly desired.

'I think I might have tortured you enough, yes,' Thomas sighed, his hands creeping delightfully down Tom's stomach and deftly undoing the buttons of his trousers.

'Tortured _yourself _enough, you mean,' Tom shot back, lifting his hips so that his trousers would slide down. Although he was almost painfully aroused by this point, the slightest touch below his neck sending spikes of pleasure through him, he tried to remain coy, knowing it sent Thomas crazy. It was easier said than done, though, with Thomas kissing his right knee then then deliberately trailing his tongue up the inside of his leg.

Tom moaned as lips brushed where he was most sensitive, the tip of a tongue very slowly prodding fire into him.

'Please,' Tom groaned.

'Please what?'

'You know what.'

He was finally given what he wanted. His knees up, he felt himself melting as Thomas pushed deep inside him, hands clawing into his waist. Tom tried not to look at the Englishman's face – the passion was too much. Thomas' incredible hands seemed intent on taking every ounce of Tom's control away, deftly running along him.

It was bliss, waves of too much sensation. A mess of sweat and heat and Tom's – or Thomas' – he wasn't sure which one he was anymore – face crunched up in pleasure, restraint lost.

It all seemed over so regrettably soon, the both of them left panting. Thomas sidled alongside Tom on the seat and kissed him soundly.

'That's it, I suppose,' Thomas said with forced lightness in his voice, shrugging.

'I'm sorry,' Tom muttered. He was painfully aware that it was time to get back to the real world. It was so hard not to stay here entwined until they fell asleep.

'Your hands?' Thomas said suddenly, grabbing Tom by his wrists and looking at them.

'Well, I couldn't exactly have made a mess in the car,' Tom said, going a little red. Grinning, Thomas lifted Tom's hands to his mouth and proceeded to lick them clean, sucking on each finger and looking Tom directly in the eyes.

'You're a little bit perverted, aren't you?' Tom sighed. It took every ounce of strength he had to reach for his shirt and get out of the car. Thomas nodded sadly and followed suit.

As Thomas headed to leave the garage, Tom grabbed his wrist.

'I really want you to be happy, you know,' Tom whispered. 'Like you do for me.'

Thomas smirked. 'Who says I want you to be happy? Who says I'm that selfless? I'm a bastard, remember.'

'You have more than enough evidence to destroy things between Sybil and me – she's tolerant, but she's not going to want a husband who's done what we've done. But you've never said anything.'

'Who says I won't?' Thomas laughed lightly, sauntering away before the Irishman could see the tears in his eyes. Damn, if Tom hadn't turned all sentimental at the last moment, he might have been fine. As it was, he had to find the darkest hidden corner he could (Downton was good for dark, secret corners) and retreat into it, his breath heaving sobs. He always fell in love with the wrong man.


End file.
